


A Violation of Expectancies

by firesign10



Series: Witch!Sam [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Magic, Pre-Slash, Sam Winchester Has Powers, This Is Not How Sam Thought Things Were Going To Go, Winchester History with a Twist, Yes There is going to be a Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: Rowena drops a bombshell on Sam—he's a witch. Sam's dealt with a mysterious power inside himself since he was a child. He's got to begin a new phase of his life...but first he needs to re-evaluate at his past with a new perspective.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Witch!Sam [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809073
Comments: 16
Kudos: 113
Collections: Sam Winchester Big Bang 2019-20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sammichgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammichgirl/gifts).



> Written for the 2019-2020 Sam Winchester Bang. I opted for a mini bang, but almost hit the total for the big one after all!
> 
> This story is dedicated to [ Sammichgirl](/users/Sammichgirl/)  
> , who gave me the concept and supported my writing it. Hope you enjoy, bb!!
> 
> Thanks go to [Cyncitymojo ](/users/cyncitymojo), [Roxymissrose ](/users/roxymissrose), and [Jerzcaligirl](/users/jercaligirl) for alpha reads, feedback, and support. Of course, thanks also go to my beta and bestie, [Theatregirl7299](/users/theatregirl7299) for the beta! 
> 
> Finally, huge thanks and appreciation to my fabulous artist, [Cassiopeia7](cassiopeia7.livejournal.com)!!! It was so delightful to work together again!! Please check out all of her beautiful art in the story and at her Art Links below!
> 
> Link to Fic Post: [on LJ](https://firesign10.livejournal.com/1437897.html)  
> Link to Art Post: [Dreamwidth](https://cassiopeia7.dreamwidth.org/573496.html) and [ LiveJournal](https://cassiopeia7.livejournal.com/624693.html)

“Samuel? Did ye not know, dearie?”

Rowena's sharp green eyes, darker in hue than Dean's, bored into Sam's, her tiny hands holding tightly onto his much larger ones. He didn't know what to think. What was she trying to tell him so intently? Her words rolled off his brain like rain off hard-packed soil, unable to penetrate his mind.

“Samuel.” She pinched his hands a little, making him refocus. “Samuel, ye're not just a hunter with a little magical skill, able to throw around a little flash and smoke. You have _power_. Power as big as ye are.” She paused a moment, ever the mistress of dramatic presentation, but her voice was sincere when she spoke again.

“Samuel Winchester, ye are a Witch, and a right damn potent one too.”

There was nothing that four year old Sam Winchester loved to do more than play with his big brother Dean. A grown-up eight years old and hugely capable in all manner of things, Dean could entertain Sam endlessly; play all sorts of made-up games with him, read to him, watch cartoons together, make up stories about where Dad had gone this time. Mommy was an angel, a beautiful mystery that Sam knew not to speak of. Daddy had to go away all the time, and when he came home he was dirty and smelly and sometimes bloody. Dean was always there, always taking care of Sam, his green eyes looking fondly at his little brother.

Sam raced around the dinky apartment they were currently living in, running on chubby legs, squealing with delight as the big bad tiger chased after him. Hurtling onto the Murphy bed, Sam crawled up on it before the tiger could reach him. “Free! I'm home free!” shrieked Sam, and the tiger dissolved into Dean, dark blond hair sticking up every which way and red lips stretched in laughter. Sam sighed as he caught his breath; Dean made such a good tiger that it really did get a little scary. But now Sam was on the home base of the rickety bed, blankets swirled into a pile that the two boys burrowed into.

“You did good,” said Dean, petting Sam's dark, sweaty hair. “You're gonna be a fast runner.”

Sam yawned, the warmth of his brother and the blankets relaxing him after the invigorating chase. Maybe Dean would make mac and cheese with the hot dogs in it for dinner, and they could watch TV. Maybe Dad wouldn't come home until later they were asleep, although Sam did worry when Dad hadn't come back yet. It seemed that whenever Dad came home late, he was bleeding, and then Dean would have to concentrate real hard to stitch Dad back up. Sam felt bad for Dad, being wounded, but he felt bad for Dean too, who had to put everyone back together. _When I get bigger,_ Sam vowed to himself, _I'm gonna take care of Dean._

In the meantime, this was about his favorite place ever. Curled up safe, warm and snuggly, with Dean.

The door banged open, and John Winchester practically fell into the living room of their crappy little rental. He dropped a couple of large duffle bags, but the loud clatter they made when they hit the floor didn't disguise his pained groan. He stumbled to the couch and collapsed heavily onto it, the frame creaking loudly beneath the weight of his body.

Dean squeezed Sam and whispered, “I gotta go check him out, okay? I'll make dinner after.” He tucked the blanket around Sam. “You stay here until I know what's up.”

Sam watched Dean close the front door and trot over to their father, kneeling in front of him and pushing his thick dark hair back as he spoke quietly to John. John pulled his shirt off as he leaned back, and from the bed Sam could see the red line across John's belly, blood oozing in wiggly trails across his skin.

Dean's full mouth pulled down at the corners in dismay, making him look older than his eight years, but he resolutely pulled out the big tackle-box that served as their first-aid kit, rummaging through it for supplies. Needle deftly threaded with floss, he set the first stitch, but John, despite his fatigue, would not lay still, fidgeting on the threadbare sofa cushions. Dean tried putting a hand on John's chest to keep him still, but then didn't have both hands free to hold the wound closed and be able to stitch. 

“Come on, Dad, please lay quiet and let me do this,” Dean pleaded, frustration making his voice sharp. Sam hated when Dean sounded that way. He wanted to help, but Dean had told him to stay put on the bed.

_Hold still, Daddy,_ thought Sam firmly. _Lie still and let Dean fix you._ He imagined the blanket wrapping around his father, pinning his arms and making him snug and quiet so Dean could place the stitches. Something swelled up inside Sam, like a balloon or bubble gum, filling him up. _Hold still!_

John settled back down on the couch, his body motionless. Dean blinked in surprise. Then he seized the moment and got busy, carefully setting a dozen stitches and bandaging the wound. Afterward, he put John's feet up on the couch and drew a blanket over him.

“Guess he's gonna sleep now,” Dean said when he rejoined Sam. “Good thing he settled down, huh? I didn't think I was going to be able to fix him.”

“I made him,” said Sam, happy to be cuddled with Dean again in their cozy pile. “He wouldn't let you fix him, so I told him to hold still.”

It was silent for a minute before Dean asked casually, “How'd you tell him, Sammy? I didn't hear you say anything.”

“I told him with my mind.” Sam yawned. “It got all big and puffy, and I told him.” He was tired after all of that.

“Okay.” Dean rubbed Sam's back. “Have you done that often, Sammy-boy?”

“Nope. This was the first time. Why are you asking so many questions?” Sam's eyes watered. “Did I do something wrong? Was that bad?”

“No, baby, everything's fine.” Dean kissed the top of Sam's head. “Just maybe...check with me next time. And don't...don't tell anyone about this, okay? Ever. It's just our special secret.”

“Not even Dad?”

Sam could feel Dean shake his head vehemently. “ _Especially_ not Dad.”

Jessica's body was invisibly pinned to the ceiling; flames blazed around her while blood wept heavily from a gash in her belly. It splashed onto the bed she and Sam shared, in fact it was her blood that had dripped onto Sam's forehead, making him look up.

“No! Jess!” Sam screamed, frozen on the bed in horror, his eyes locked on his girlfriend. This couldn't be happening, it had to be a bad dream. What was using Jessica to recreate Mary Winchester's horrible death? He couldn't think or move, could only stare uncomprehendingly at the terrible sight before him.

“Sam!” Dean yelled, barreling into the bedroom. He stopped abruptly when he too saw Jess, shock clear on his face. Then he turned to Sam, shouting urgently, “We gotta get out of here!” He grabbed Sam and started manhandling him over to the door.

“Jess!” Sam cried out again. Anger, love and terror created a volatile mix inside him, and he _reached_ inside himself. There it was—that swelling strength, that _power_ lurking in him. He yelled again and _threw_ his arm wide, hand open towards the ceiling, sending that power coursing after his arm.

The flames froze, yellow and red tentacles unmoving in the boiling air.

Dean let go of Sam, staring at him wide-eyed. “What the--”

“Catch her!” Sam yelled, raising his other hand now and... _twisting_ it. The flames vanished, leaving the smoldering ceiling blackened and still crackling.

Jessica fell limply into Dean's arms. She herself was unscathed by the fire; it had burnt the ceiling around her, but not her body. Dean hurriedly laid her on the rumpled, blood-spattered bed, her belly still gruesomely wet and crimson from the leaking blood.

Sam leaped to the bedside and spread his hands over the gash. Jess whimpered, tears leaking from her tightly closed eyes and running down into her blonde curls, her fingers scrabbling at the bedspread. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, willing the blood to stop. Without consciously thinking about it, he began murmuring in Latin, the words coming on their own to his lips.

“Ora pro auxilio  
pro sanitatem  
Corrigi posse nocere  
Colore caeli, rubrum et hyacintho  
Et vocavi vos,  
Thuribulum mearum  
me servum tuum in virtute  
Ego tui industria alveo  
Et tu iubes  
Restituere possit tale ens, quod estis vos”

_I plead for help  
for healing  
Reverse this harm  
Colors of the air, red and blue  
I summon you  
My hands as your vessel  
my power as your servant  
I channel your energy  
I command you  
Restore this being as you are able_

“Sam,” Dean said quietly. He laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. “Look.”

Sam opened his eyes. Although Jessica's nightgown and skin were still blood-stained, the flow had ceased and she appeared to now be deeply, peacefully asleep.

Sam huffed a sigh of relief. “Okay, now we gotta call 911.”

“And tell them what?” Dean gestured at the blackened ceiling and the bloody bed. “How do we explain this? And her wound? To the EMTs and police?”

“I don't know! But she needs a hospital now!” Sam ran a frantic hand through his hair. He knew Dean had a point. How _were_ they going to explain this? He racked his brain for possibly plausible scenarios. He wasn't sure what he'd just done, couldn't even explain it to Dean—how could the normal world understand, if experienced hunters like themselves were unable to? Yet the paramount matter was getting Jessica help.

Dean pulled him away from the bed, turning him so they faced each other. “Sam, we have to leave. We'll call 911 for Jessica and then we have to leave.” His green eyes filled with sympathy. It was almost more than Sam could bear, that his brother should grieve for Sam's loss. “We can never come back here, Sammy. We can never let them connect this to us. You'll have to let her go forever.”

Sam was aghast. He'd almost lost Jessica to this supernatural attack, and now he still had to lose her for always? It wasn't fair, goddammit. It didn't make sense to him at all. Except it did. He knew that as much as he hated it, Dean was right. They had to disappear.

“They will take care of her, and everyone will just leave the inexplicable things unexplained, like they always do. If we stay, we have to try explaining all of this, and we can't, and it's jail or funny farm time. So all we can do is leave.” Dean gripped Sam's arm, squeezing gently. “It sucks, I know. It sucks beyond measure. But it's all we can do. We vanish and she gets to live her life. A life she almost didn't get to have, except for you.” Dean's eyes were sad. “But now it will have to go on without you.”

“No...” whispered Sam, his heart splintering into shards inside his chest with the pain of it. How was he going to do this? “No, I love her. I was going to—I have the ring. I was just waiting until after the LSATs, so I'd know what I could offer her. We were--” The tears overflowed his burning eyes and rolled hotly down his cheeks. “Dean, we--”

Dean yanked him in and hugged him tightly, arms squeezing hard around Sam's ribs. Dean sounded as close to crying as Sam felt. “I get it, Sammy. I'm so sorry. But the choice is she lives without you or dies with you. And I know what you're going to choose.”

Sam nodded and clung to his big brother, his tears soaking Dean's jacket as Dean freed one hand and dialed 911.

The blue and red lights of the police and ambulance vehicles lit up the dark streets like a carnival. Neighbors milled about, watching as the beautiful blonde girl from apartment 2C was carried out of the building and placed into the ambulance. The fire department shook their heads over the scorch marks in the apartment, puzzled that nothing besides the ceiling was burned, and that the flames were out by the time they arrived.

“She has a boyfriend, real tall drink of water. He was quiet but nice—they looked happy every time I saw them,” the next-door neighbor offered to the police as they moved around the crowd, questioning the residents. “Lived together like two years. I was sure he was gonna propose any day.”

Watching from a darkened side street, the Winchesters stood silent, shoulder to shoulder. Dean slung his arm around Sam's neck, and the weight of it comforted Sam a little, reminded him he wasn't alone. “So, little brother, I gotta ask...what happened back there? How'd you, uh, whammy the fire? Stop her bleeding? And where did you whip that spell out from? You been studying spellcasting along with calculus and world history?”

Sam sniffed, ran his jacket sleeve past his nose, still runny from crying. “I just...I don't know. I can't explain it. I just—I reached inside and there was all this...power.” He shook his head. “I grabbed it, it felt like...like smoke, and I knew that I could use it, make it do things.” He studied the ground. “I don't know where it came from though.” Just telling Dean about it made Sam antsy; He didn't think Dean would reject him over it, but it probably wasn't a good thing either. Mysteries that the Winchesters ran across were rarely listed in the beneficial column. He fidgeted, wanting to just get on with the plan to leave Palo Alto.

“Okay, little bro. We'll figure it out later. Let's just get a move on.” Dean rubbed Sam's back, and Sam, feeling like one giant raw nerve at this point, was grateful for Dean's warmth. He felt so very, very cold and alone, adrift now with no Jess to anchor him. She'd been his connection to the apple pie life they'd been planning, a life he hadn't entirely found his own place in, and now that she was lost to him, he didn't know what to expect from any direction.

But Dean was here with Sam now, the same solid Dean who'd been the most important person in his life until Sam had left for California. The stress between them from Sam's departure years ago was gone. Dean was back in Sam's life, and that was the one warm spot of light and comfort for Sam right now. He'd figure more stuff out later, when the air wasn't heavy with the smell of charred wood and wet pavement.

They turned away from the crowd and got into the Impala, the multi-colored emergency lights reflecting in its deep black shine. Sam slung himself into the passenger seat, watching Dean's capable hands put the car into gear and steer it away. 

As they drove away from the smoke and destruction, Sam wondered idly if Dean was just as happy to have Sam back as Sam was for Dean. Maybe Dean had been alone too. Sam could still remember those dank, nameless motel rooms, and how the Winchesters were always strangers wherever they went. Maybe having his little brother back, mysterious power or not, was something Dean was happy about too. At least, Sam hoped so.

Winchesters re-united. The palest ghost of a smile traced over Sam's lips.

Sam slogged down the muddy road running between the empty wooden buildings, his sole intent being to leave Cold Oak behind. Cold Oak, decrepit structures haunted by a myriad of ghosts, beset by demons, and most lately, the candidate testing grounds for the future general of Hell's armies. Where endearing Andy and solitary Lily had been killed, where a once-heroic Jake had turned traitor, and where sweet Ava had become a master manipulator and a cold-blooded murderer.

Cold Oak was a hellhole.

“Sammy!”

Dear Lord, was that Dean? _Dean_? Sam let out a stifled laugh, tears and joy clogging in his throat. Dean, his crazy wonderful brother, was running up the road toward him, Bobby close on his heels. Here to rescue Sam. Andy's telepathic call must have worked. Just not in time for Andy.

_”Sammy! Look out!”_

Sam heard the blind fear in Dean's voice, saw the horror cross his face, but there wasn't enough time for the warning. Something cold and sharp pierced Sam's back, striking and twisting into him with enough force to drop him to his knees, his head flopping back.

Gunshots blazed past him, and he heard a wet thump into the mud behind him.

_Fuck. Jake._ Jake must have picked up the battered blade Sam had dropped next to him, and now he'd used that same blade to stab Sam.

To kill Sam.

He could feel his life waning; his limbs growing heavy and chilly, his blood sluggishly oozing from his body as his heart slowed. _Dean. Sorry..._

“I got you, Sammy.”

Strong arms held him up, chest pressed against chest. Dean's warm voice was husky in Sam's ears, fingers threaded through his hair.

“Taking care of m' pain-in-the-ass little brother...that's m'job.” Dean's fingers dug into Sam, holding on painfully tight. Dean's voice held more pain than Sam had ever heard before, even after that werewolf had tried to eviscerate Dean when he was sixteen. A guttural sob followed the pleading words and Dean clutched Sam even harder.

_No. Can't...do this to him. He needs me too. Needs me like I need him._ Sam gasped weakly, felt Dean's tears wet on his cheek. _Can't leave Dean. Can't leave him all alone. He loves me, it's not just me loving him. I have to...stay..._

Sam reached _out_ with his mind--no, not just his mind, with that _power_ he'd only ever been able draw on a few times before. Power that was banked deep inside his brain and now burst free, illuminating like a solar flare. The power surged throughout his body, latching on to Dean and drawing strength from his brother as they pressed together. Behind his closed eyelids, Sam visualized the slashed blood vessels repairing. Muscles knitting together. Severed nerve fibers reconnecting, electrical signals flashing to his brain. Split and torn skin healing.

Sam gasped more strongly and opened his eyes. Dean almost dropped him in surprise. Bobby gasped audibly, his eyes huge as he stared at Sam.

“Dean.”

“Sammy!” Dean's hand cradled his face, Dean's vibrant eyes urgently searched Sam's. “What—I thought you were dead!” He pulled Sam's face close, planting a fervent kiss to his forehead. Then Dean kissed Sam's mouth, a full-on, no-nonsense, no-doubt-about-it smacker on Sam's lips, hot and moist and breathtaking, before simply clutching Sam to his chest again.

Sam was tired, so very, very tired. Turned out it took a lot of strength and energy to do all that rebuilding crap, power or no power. If he hadn't been exhausted to the bone, he would have wondered longer what the hell had just happened, and why. But it took too much energy to think about right this second, so he chalked it up to Dean's relief that Sam was alive and promptly forgot about it.

He leaned against Dean, savoring his brother's warmth, the strength of his body as it supported the limp noodle that currently was Sam. Closing his eyes, he murmured, “I was. I came back.” _For you, Dean. Came back for you._

Bobby coughed loudly, mumbling something about getting out while the getting was good. Dean said, “Okay, Sam. Let's go get some rest, all right, buddy? We'll talk more about everything later.” Maintaining his grip, he helped Sam stand up, guiding him back down the muddy road to the Impala, Bobby following with shotgun at the ready.

They never did talk about it later, which didn't really surprise Sam. Not Sam's apparent resurrection, not Dean's passionate kiss. In true Winchester fashion, they buried the whole shebang and simply moved on. Whenever Sam thought back to that day, the day he'd struggled to survive, aching and wet while kneeling in the thick Cold Oak mud, he always felt curious. Why had Dean done that? What did it mean? 

Even more perplexing was, why had it felt so very right to Sam, that his brother kissed him like a lover? Right physically, judging by the electric thrill that had coursed through his body. Right emotionally—his heart had, like the Grinch's, grown three sizes that day. All from a kiss from his... _brother_.

These were the questions that Sam wanted to find answers to, but shied away from asking. What if it was all smoke and mirrors, reactions in a heated moment, and really signified nothing at all? 

Finding that out would be worse than simply not knowing. So when the questions rose up, as they did from time to time, Sam pushed them down and went on with the next hunt.

Aside from the incestuous smooch, Sam also did wonder to himself about what was happening within him. This mysterious power that periodically welled up in him--was it part of what Dad meant when he told Dean about maybe having to kill his brother? Sam and Dean had been raised not to ever trust magic, that it was a manifestation of the Dark. Reducing this to the plainest of questions then; what Sam needed to know was, was it good or evil?

And what did that make Sam?

Fortunately only Bobby and Dean had been with Sam in Cold Oak, so no one else knew that Sam had died and then fixed himself right up. No awkward questions had to be answered, no justifications were needed. Life and hunting continued for Sam and Dean. Drive five states, find crappy motel. Complete the hunt, usually involving some measure of blood and guts, bodily harm, or both. Drink, eat, patch each other up as needed. Maybe take a day off, maybe move right on. Every so often, take a week to rest, repair, recuperate, and hallelujah, do laundry. And then get back to it.

Sam might get Dean coffee and pastries occasionally, Dean might get Sam tea and smoothies or fruit salad. They traded off on booze and beer, roughly taking turns. One night, they'd watch's Sam's documentary, the next, Dean's action flick. Silent tokens of affection exchanged, no explanation necessary.

No questions asked.

It was all status quo for the Winchesters. Even Sam, typically the more introspective and inquisitive of the pair, never really thought about how well he and Dean meshed, in and out of hunts. It wasn't until they found themselves in Heaven, and learned a bit about Heaven's structure, that things got really weird.

Running around in Heaven as they dodged angels, Sam and Dean found themselves dashing from Sam's 'best-of' clips to Dean's. Sam felt bad that his flashbacks were not showing how much he loved Dean, while Dean's seemed to be all about Sam. Dean grew snippier and snippier at the imbalance, his voice getting gruffer as his expression darkened. Sam tried to explain, but Dean simply stomped away.

Then Ash appeared, decked out in a colorful luchador mask and cape. Beckoning the Winchesters to silently accompany him, he led them to a virtually perfect recreation of the Roadhouse, battered wooden bar, uneven stools, and all. Doffing his disguise, Ash demonstrated his angel radio and talked about how Heaven worked, assisted by Pamela, who had joined them.

“See, this is my Heaven,” Ash explained. “My happy place.”

“And mine,” said Pamela, “is non-stop concerts.”

Sam and Dean exchanged nervous glances. 

“But we've been seeing all the same things, all the same places. What's up with that?” asked Dean.

“Oh, well,” Ash's voice quieted to almost a whisper. “There's the special cases, you know. For like...Soulmates.”

Dean's face held a mixture of puzzled and surprised. “Soulmates?”

Ash nodded.

Sam couldn't speak. Soulmates? _Soulmates?_ What the fuck was Ash talking about? How could he and his brother--

“Fuck,” he murmured to himself, gob-smacked. This was it. This was the root of it. How Sam needed to be with Dean all the time. How Dean was always reaching for Sam. How they were so in sync, moving as one, hunting as one. Of course.

How Dean's kiss that time hadn't fazed Sam.

As if Dean had heard Sam's thought, Sam saw him run a hand through his hair and rub the back of his neck, a faint flush staining his cheeks. The statement kept sinking deeper and deeper into Sam, resonating all the way down. This was why he slept better with Dean in the room, This is why he'd flash on Dean's fit body and beautiful face during a jerk-off session. Why Dean's smell grounded Sam, why his touch was electrifying. Why at the same time that Sam knew how wrong it was, he found himself craving more and more of Dean, _desiring_ him. 

And why he would never tell Dean. Better that Dean go out fucking random chicks than find out how his twisted brother felt to inexorably, erotically bound to him.

Soulmates.

Sam came our of his seconds-long reverie to hear Dean's comment on the whole situation.

“Son of a bitch.”

The bustle and hubbub of the busy hospital emergency room seemed to fade away, noises muffled, lights dimmed. Sam only had eyes for Bobby. Uncharacteristically still, unnaturally pale, Bobby lay on the gurney, a sheet pulled over his bare legs and hospital johnny. The white bandage wrapped around his head only served to make his skin look pasty, and the red splotch of blood a harsh, shocking contrast.

Somebody in a suit holding a clipboard moved in front of Sam, and he realized Dean was standing next to him as well. Suit Guy asked, “Mr. Winchester—Winchesters—we need to discuss some things. Do you know if your uncle is an organ donor?”

Sam heard more than saw Dean's muted roar, vaguely aware that Dean had moved the organ donor man far away. Sam's attention snapped back to Bobby. It was so weird; Bobby was never this still, lying there unmoving, unless he was waiting to take his shot. Otherwise Bobby was busy—cooking chili or stew for them, filling salt rounds, poring through ancient, dusty books to find the answer to some mystery. Drinking whiskey together, amber liquid in those old jelly jars. Bending over some rust-bucket and making it magically run almost like new. Creating a whole damn supernatural panic room in a weekend.

Something trickled down Sam's cheek, and he absently brushed at it. He didn't know what to do. He wanted Bobby to get better. He didn't think they could do without their—fuck, not uncle. Their teacher, mentor, father. The man who'd shown them everything that was decent in their lives, fostered them, fed and housed them. Loved them.

_No. Not like this, not at the hands of a slime-bucket like Roman._

Sam moved forward, only needing two steps to be right next to Bobby. He studied the sunken eyes, lids crepey and the surrounding skin bruised purple and black. Sam hoped the words would come unbidden again as they had with Jessica. He spread his hands, one over Bobby's heart, one on the top of his head, fingers threaded through the gray-brown scruffy hair, no hat for once. Oh yeah, that hat was in the van, that stupid hat with the perfectly round bullet hole through it, right above the brim. Sam closed his eyes, felt his grief reach for the power, stirring the coals of it to coax forth a flame. A swirling began inside his chest, like a tornado of light, ready to branch out and--

“No, Sam.” A whispery voice broke Sam's concentration. “No, son.”

Sam looked down and saw Bobby's eyes looking at him, gray-blue glinting through the puffy lids. Bobby painfully licked his pale lips.

“I know what you wanna do, boy. And I thank you. 'S the best gift you could give me, showin' me what you'd do for me. But...I can't accept it. It ain't right. Not 'cause it's evil—you have too good a heart and soul for that, Sam. Trust me on that. Just that I done cheated Death enough times already, and this here—this is my time.” He coughed weakly, and Sam bit his lip, looking around for some water.

Bobby's hand slowly slid to Sam's hand on his chest and squeezed it. “You save that for another time. I'm ready.” Tears trickled out of Sam's eyes as he blinked hard. He felt like he was going to choke, so much emotion was swelling inside him. His soul felt that Bobby was right, but his heart hurt from the impending loss.

“You watch out for that brother of yours, and make sure he watches out for you. You two are the goldangist rascals I ever saw.” A smile flitted over Bobby's wan cheeks. “And the best men I ever had the privilege to know. The best sons I could have ever hoped to have.”

Sam couldn't see for a moment, his tears blinding him as he squeezed Bobby's hand. “Of course we will. We always do,” he managed to mutter, his lips numb.

As the last word left his mouth, the lights of Bobby's machines began to blink and the monitors to blare. Someone grabbed Sam by the shoulders and pushed him aside, someone else shoving him outside the exam room curtain, as a crowd of medical personnel surrounded Bobby, everyone yelling and working frantically. Dean re-appeared next to Sam, grabbing him and shouting, asking what the fuck was going on. Sam could only stand there mutely, tears sluicing down his face as he watched the beautiful blossom of light swirl out of Bobby's chest, slowly rotating gracefully in the room before rising up and dissipating into the ceiling.


	2. Chapter 2

Six hunts and twice as many states later after Bobby's passing, Sam finally screwed up his nerve to confront Dean about his pissy attitude. His brother had been terse that entire time. Starting from standing by Bobby's funeral pyre through today's drive, Dean had only spoken as was needed for hunts, remaining mute the rest of the time. The Impala had never been so silent, barring Dean's loud driving music. He spent little time with Sam, disappearing into bars and diners, leaving Sam alone in empty motel rooms, staring at bad cable shows and dealing with poky internet. The only plus Sam could discern in the whole situation was apparently Dean wasn't sleeping around; his clothes were perfume-free upon his return, and Sam never walked in on any unfortunate situations. Somehow that kept Sam's heart from breaking any further; he was still grieving for Bobby and now for the lack of his brother's presence, but he forbore to analyze why that was in fact something to grieve over. That got locked away in the special “soulmate” box way, way inside.

They were driving across the country, having just put down a werewolf in Oregon. The next hunt to pop up had been a vengeful spirit or poltergeist in a plantation home in Georgia. Sam had offered to look for something less far-flung, not looking forward to a cross-country silent treatment while cooped up in the Impala, but Dean gave a brusque shake of his head as the only reply. Sam sighed heavily. Georgia it was.

So now he was in his usual shotgun seat, half-numb ass in the molded curve of the upholstery, knees at the best angle for circulation, while he looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye and tried to calculate the odds of Dean's mood. Dean appeared relaxed, with his left arm on the door and his right stretched out over the steering wheel, but Sam knew better than that. He saw the tension in Dean's limbs, the tightness in his jaw. His older brother was brooding, and Sam had had about all he could take of it.

“You're going to break a tooth, you keep clenching your jaw that way. No girl's gonna wanna fuck a gap-toothed guy.” Sam went for a more jovial approach first, hoping to relieve the discomfiture.

Silence.

Okay, direct and to the point it is. “Dean, enough. Something is eating at you, and we need to talk about it.” Sam waited a moment. “What is it? Dude, we can't go on like this. Not only does it just plain suck, it's the kind of thing that is going to trip us up during a hunt and get us killed.” Even when other communication methods failed, it was hard for Dean to deny that a hunt could be adversely affected.

Dean suddenly steered the Impala to the shoulder, braking hard. Dust rose in clouds around the car. Dean gripped the wheel and snorted before flinging himself around to face Sam.

“Fine, Sam let's talk. How about we talk about these fucking powers of yours?”

Sam blinked at Dean in surprise. “Uh...what?” He had to admit they'd talked about talking about them, but it had never actually happened. “Okay, sure. What do you want to know? I have to admit that I don't know much about them myself, but I'll tell you what I can.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “Where'd they come from? When did they start?” He stared levelly at Sam, his green eyes flinty.

Sam still didn't understand where Dean's antagonism stemmed from, but he took a deep breath and tried to address the questions.

“I don't know where they came from. I've had them as long as I remember.” Sam squinched up his eyes, trying to recall. “Wasn't there something with Dad, and a tiger? Where would I have come across a tiger?”

Dean's eyes flickered, but he just resettled himself. “Go on.”

“So, yeah, even when I was really little I could feel it deep inside, but usually it was asleep, or stowed away. Which was fine with me, because I don't know what the deal with it is. And I have no idea where it came from.” Sam swallowed nervously, his throat dry. “I've always been worried that maybe it's...evil. That's why I don't use it all the time. I don't want to take the chance that it's going to drive me to the darkside.” He spread his hands open. “That's all I know.”

Dean huffed, his foot jiggling and his eyes anywhere but on Sam. Sam watched Dean, wondering anew where this—this _hostility_ that was basically bleeding off of Dean--was coming from?

“So it just what, pops up on a bad day?” scoffed Dean. 

Sam felt the heat of annoyance creeping up his neck. “No. There's been the couple of times where I felt it move and I grabbed it, stirred it up, and then—whatever happened, happened.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Just hey nonny nonny and poof?”

Annoyance became outright irritation, and Sam felt less inclined to humor his brother. He let the irritation color his tone as he answered Dean. “I guess, if that's how you gotta reframe it in order to deal with it. We are talking about the power that saved Jessica, after all.” _And me, or did you forget that too?_ Sam though angrily.

Dean leaned forward, jabbing a forefinger at Sam. “Then why the hell didn't you fucking save Bobby?” he barked. “Where the _fuck_ was your precious power then?”

Sam felt like a sword had slipped through his ribs, the pain was that sudden, sharp and slick.

He'd never told Dean about the conversation he'd had with Bobby, standing next to Bobby's gurney. Never revealed his plan to save Bobby, and Bobby's gentle refusal. Well, guess never was over.

“I was going to. I was standing right next to him, had my hands on his head and his chest, and I could feel it, could fee the power starting. I was pushing for it to manifest, pushing hard--all I wanted to do was heal Bobby. But he said no.” Sam's throat clogged, and he coughed harshly. “He said...it was his time. That he appreciated the offer. He said,” and now tears were running freely down Sam's cheeks, his hands knotted together as he choked out the rest. “He said we were rascals, and the best—the best men he knew, and the best--” The sobs were spasming in his chest now. “The best sons he ever could have hoped for. So no, Dean, I didn't save him, because he told me not to. Did you really think I wouldn't have otherwise?” 

Sam, emptied of words, leaned forward, covering his face in his hands as the sobs, unshed even as Bobby's funeral pyre burned, racked his body. 

The car was quiet except for Sam's crying, muffled by his hands. He felt the seat shift, and then the warmth of Dean's arms embracing him and pulling him over to Dean's side. Sam buried his face in Dean's shoulder, letting the denim of his jacket absorb Sam's tears while Dean crooned softly, rubbing Sam's back and planting little kisses on his hair.

“I know, Sammy. I know you woulda saved him. I just...” Dean's voice broke, and he coughed hoarsely before continuing. “I just miss him so damn bad.”

“Screw. You!”

Sam was soaked by now, the cold water pouring down on him in a deluge when Toni flipped the switch. He thought it was refreshing at first, rinsing the sweat and grime and blood off him, but god _damn_ , it was _cold_. He couldn't stop shivering, every stitch of his clothing was drenched, and his hair was like a waterfall into his eyes. But hell if he'd give that British Bevel bitch any information on the American hunters.

The worst part was that this didn't even make sense to him. Toni Bevel, prim and proper in beige jodhpurs, fresh from Jolly Old England as a delegate of the British Men of Letters, now busy torturing him instead of finding out how they could work together. The British Men could teach the Americans so much, and yet all they seem to want to do is torture and kill. Where's the civilized approach in that?

The water cut off, and Sam drew a grateful breath. Toni, carefully standing several feet away, tsked at him. “Sam, really, why don't you simply accept that this is the natural order of things?” she queries in her high, nasal voice. “We know what we're doing, and we're damn good at it. There's no point in trying to cover for the brutes and oafs you call hunters here.”

Sam shook his wet hair out of his face. “Screw. You.” He really hadn't thought he could hate someone so much, had considered himself more of a pacifist than that, but man, he fucking _hated_ Lady Toni Bevel. And her assistant, Ms. Watt, was second on that list.

Toni sighed. “Do you think you're being brave? Oh, very well then.”

The memory of how cold the water receded when Sam suffered the other end of the scale: having his feet scorched by Ms. Watt's acetylene torch. He screamed a lot during that—it wasn't worth it to keep silent. He didn't care about impressing anyone with his stoicism.

He didn't scream during the drugging; instead, he smiled as he floated in a gauzy chemical dream of being naked in a soft bed, candles flickering warmly, and drinking wine with Toni. When that dream ended abruptly, Sam shivered and whimpered as hallucinations tormented him in the cold, concrete basement. Eventually he slept fitfully as the drugs left his system, but it was not restful.

When he woke up, cold and stiff, Sam found himself chained back up in his wooden chair again, his hands cuffed behind him and his feet shackled. He gritted his teeth, trying to prepare himself to spend more hours rebuffing whatever new torture Toni was going to throw at him next. If he could survive Lucifer, he ought to be able to survive the Dolores Umbrage of the British Men of Letters.

Only what she threw at him next turned out to be...Dean. A scuffed and dirty Dean, who'd managed to locate Sam, albeit unfortunately not without being discovered himself. He looked both belligerent and apologetic as only Dean could, and Sam had to hide his elation that his brother was all right, even if the rescue hadn't worked out properly.

“Now then, Sam, we can snap you apart, joint by joint. Maybe you can withstand that. But can you watch it happen to Dean?” She tapped on Dean's chest with the tip of her dagger. Sam's heart skipped a few beats.

“Hey, I just came by for tea and a beating,” interjected Dean in his cockiest bluff-the-bad-guy manner.”So, Sam, who's Angry Spice here?”

Toni ignored Dean, going over to her little weapons table and trading the dagger in for Dean's Taurus. Sam knew she'd seen enough to know that Dean was Sam's weak spot. Returning to Dean, Toni kept her eyes fixed on Sam while she said, “You, Sam, will now give me the information I request, or Dean here will end up with a nice shiny bullet in his brain.” She tapped Dean's temple with the gun barrel.

Sam felt her words hit his gut as hard as any punch; if he'd learned one thing these past many hours, it was that Toni Bevel was a completely unscrupulous bitch, and dedicated to getting her way via any methods necessary. He didn't harbor any doubt that she would in fact drop Dean where he stood in order to make Sam crack. The fear of that happening made him feel like vomiting.

_No. Can't happen. Can't lose Dean. I thought it was that he couldn't lose me before, but I was wrong. It's_ me. _I can't lose him. No. No._ No!

Reaching in, Sam yanked his power awake. It immediately filled him, making his skin feel tight and his eyes burn. Opening his mouth, he realized he had no idea what he was going to say, but he let himself step back, simply be a vessel, and trust the power knew what it was doing.

“Dimittere dilectione mea  
Occidere, et non est tibi  
sed ut mea  
Et non nocebit ei  
Vos can non noceat ei  
Et conteram in vobis  
sicut sustuleris fragilis calamos genere  
Et conteram fortitudinem meam vobis  
auster contrivit te virtutem meam  
me vero et conteram vobis!

_Release my love  
He is not yours to kill  
but mine to have  
You shall not harm him  
You cannot harm him  
I will break you  
like a brittle branch  
My strength will break you  
my power will break you  
my truth will break you!_

The words roared out of him without his awareness, and apparently Toni was up on her Latin because she blanched even as she scowled. Sam's power surged out of him; he thought for a second he was actually turning into the Hulk, he felt so strong. His arms felt like iron. He gave a mighty pull and broke the cuffs on his arms, followed by kicking one of his legs free. Toni's jaw dropped, but before she could react further, Sam stepped forward and swung a fist at her face. He heard the crack of her jaw fracturing under the blow. She collapsed to the floor with a muffled scream. Dean scooped up his gun from where she'd dropped it, striking a blow to her temple to ensure her remaining unconscious.

They stood there for a moment, both panting, looking at Toni, laid out cold on the floor, and then at each other. Sam kicked the foot still fastened the broken chair loose of its shackle. Fully free, Sam shook himself with relief. Dean ran his hands over Sam, clearly checking him over and making sure he was okay, and Sam stood quietly and let him. The power drained away, and he was just Sam again.

“What are we gonna do with her?” Dean nodded his head toward Ms. Bevel. “Don't suppose we can just off her?” His face reflected the same disgust that Sam felt himself.

“Kinda wish we could, but that might stir things up even more.” Sam looked around. “Saw some rope around here. Let's tie her up and get the hell out of here.”

Rowena's green eyes bored into Sam's. “Power such as yours, Samuel—it often comes from a bloodline. Are there any indications of that in the Winchesters or Campbells?”

Sam shook his head. “I've never heard of it beyond basic spell-work in the Winchesters, stuff that anyone could do, and the Campbells are hunters through and through. They would be repelled by magic and witches.”

Rowena tilted her head in puzzlement. “Hmm, that's odd.” The jeweled rings on her hands glittered as she gestured. “No matter. What we must do now is address it. You must learn, my dear boy, learn and practice.”

Sam looked down for a second, his hair falling over his face, and Rowena crossed her arms. “What is it?” she asked tartly.

Shaking his hair back, Sam look at her questioningly. “Is it...evil? I've always fought it because I didn't know. Is it from—from Azazel? From the demon blood he fed me?”

Rowena came closer, placing her hands on Sam's arms, shaking her head. “No, dear boy. If it were evil, it would only have manifested at dark moments. You've used it to save people—Jessica, Dean, yourself. Bobby.” She patted his chest. “This is good magic. You are a good person. We'd have known a long time ago if it was dark. Your very soul would have rejected it as unnatural.”

Stepping back from him, she began pacing around the chamber. “Now, one thing you'll need right away is a familiar.”

Sam laughed. “Isn't that just an old wives tale? Old women and their cats?”

Rowena stopped and glared at him. “It's very important for a beginning witch! A familiar will help you focus and boost your power, becoming both assistant and guide. Your relationship will be closer than any other...in every way.”

Sam chose to ignore the implication of that statement for the moment. “Why don't you have a familiar?”

“I am very, very old, and I no longer need that kind of assistance. But when I was a fledgling witch, sure enough I did. I had a patchwork cat, clever and sly as three people.”

“Okay, so where do we get one or find one?”

Rowena leaned against a wall of books and laughed. “Oh my dear boy! Your best candidate is already present. You just don't know it, and neither does he. You feel the bond though. It's already a strong one between ye. That's why he'd be so good as your familiar, should he accept the role.”

Sam felt a surge of curiosity and excitement. “He's already here? Who is it?”

Rowena came up close to him, tugged his head down. Whispering in his ear, she said, “It's Dean.”

Sam jerked back. “What? Dean is—what? You're kidding, right?” His knee-jerk reaction was visualizing Dean chasing mice around the bunker.

Rowena shook her head, unable to stop smiling. “Dean is your first choice of a familiar.” She sighed. “Who else helps you like he does? Supports you? Is invested in you? Loves you? Oh, it's Dean, yes it is.”

Sam pushed his hair back messily with his fingers. “This is just—it's crazy!” He huffed and started pacing around the room. “I mean—at the very least, Dean isn't a cat!”

“He would be, at times. Generally a familiar has three forms: as a human, an ordinary animal, and a guardian animal. You'll have to wait and see what Dean's animal forms will be.” Rowena's eyes followed Sam's pacing. “Stop worrying now. You'll get used to it. A familiar will sleep with you, eat with you, and quite possibly have sex with you, in their human form of course. It's all part of the bond between ye, a bond you'll have with no other.”

Sam's enthusiasm hit the proverbial wall at the possibility that Dean wouldn't want this. Memories of being trapped by Gadreel, Sam's body overtaken without his consent, flooded his mind. He couldn't do that to Dean, _wouldn't_ do that to his brother.

Looking steadily at Rowena, Sam said, “He has to agree first. I'm not co-opting his mind or his body unwillingly. It's for him to choose.”

Rowena came closer and ran her palm down Sam's cheek. “Of course. Only a dark witch would force someone to perform as their familiar. We'll talk with Dean, explain it to him, and he can choose of his own free will. Should he decline, there will be other candidates, although none as perfect for you as he.”

Sam sighed. It was a relief to feel that Dean could be side-by-side with him in this new adventure, but...hoo-boy, Sam did not want to be the one to tell him he would sometimes be a cat.

Looking at Rowena, he saw her shake with suppressed mirth. He started to chuckle, and they both burst into laughter.

“This is going to be good,” said Sam.

Normal, Illinois, 1958

The sphere rose into the air, hovering just beneath the ceiling, its pulsing yellow light shot through with red and silver filaments. Its glow grew brighter for a long moment before it vanished in a puff of smoke and ashes. The room, while still well-lit, nonetheless seemed darker, and a faint odor of smoke lingered in the air.

Henry Winchester dusted off his hands and his white shirt to remove any stray flecks of ash, then carefully packed his satchel with bottles of the various spell ingredients. He was pleased with the result of the experiment. Conjuring a ball of light like that could be a very helpful tool.

Latching the bag securely shut, he gave a satisfied smile at the arcane circle drawn on the gray concrete floor while he slipped his suit jacket on. He was in an empty room in the Men of Letters bunker, a room no one ever came to...except him. It was the perfect place to practice spells; away from the disapproving eyes of his MoL brothers, secure enough to contain any possible mistakes. Henry did not aspire to be a Hunter—nearly Neanderthals, they were, in his estimation—but his natural bent for spell-work could only be an asset for fieldwork. So he studied and practiced—but in secret. While the Men of Letters conceded that magic could be and was useful, they kept it strictly regulated, and did not smile upon experimentation or exploration in the dark arts.

Henry, therefore, did not record his experiments in a journal, as would otherwise be expected, and he shared none of his tests or creations with his fellow Men. The magic performed by the MoL was far simpler than the spells Henry was working to develop. Henry secretly suspected he had some intrinsic bent for magic that allowed him to create these more complex spells and tricks, but that was not a theory he shared with anyone.

It was with some pride that Henry arrived home, greeting his lovely wife Millie with a kiss on her cheek. Their four year old son, John, was playing with a toy truck, but when he saw Henry, he threw himself energetically at his father. “There, there!” laughed Henry, marveling as always at how a child so fully embodied love. Henry had been an only child himself, and it wasn't until he and Millie had had John that Henry realized what unconditional warmth and affection had been lacking prior in his life.

Looking down at the child clinging to his knees, Henry saw thick dark hair and hazel eyes regarding him with a gravity he thought was beyond the boy's years. John was not a dour boy, but he had a natural reserve, whereas Henry was a little more light-hearted, despite the seriousness of his work. Nothing warmed Henry's heart like playing with John and seeing the boy laughing loudly, his eyes sparkling.

“How was your day?” Henry asked, sitting on the navy blue sofa and drawing John into his lap. He loved looking at that beautiful little face that was such a perfect melding of Henry and Millie; he always had to pick out which of John's features were from whom. John's solid little body felt so good, so right, on Henry's lap and in his arms.

“Okay. Mommy talked some more about going to school soon.” The boy sighed. “Do I hafta? It sounds boring.” He smiled, his dimples flashing. “I could go to work with you, Daddy.”

“You will one day,” said Henry, feeling a rush of pride at his son becoming a Legacy one day, joining Henry in the all-important work of the Men of Letters. “But for that to happen, you do have to go to school. You need to learn to read and write and all of your numbers. Be a good boy and learn all you can, and you'll work with me when you grow up. There will be lots of secrets to learn then.” He scrunched his nose up and tickled John.

“I love secrets!” laughed John, squirming. “Does Mommy know them too?”

Henry felt a twinge at how his wife didn't even know about Henry's inherited gift of sorcery, much less the Men of Letters. “No, buddy, Mommy doesn't know them. She takes care of us instead.” A brief vision of Josie, every bit as strong and intelligent as any Man, crossed Henry's mind, but he quickly shook it off. That was all part of why Josie didn't have a family. Not everyone was MoL material, and sometimes to achieve that, sacrifices had to be made.

“Okay, boys!” Millie called from the kitchen. “Time for dinner!” John and Henry went off to enjoy a tasty dinner of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, with some cherry pie afterward. John particularly loved pie.

Replete with the delicious dinner, Henry and his wife put John to bed, tucking him in after a story and a song. Then it was helping Millie with the dishes before retiring to read. He looked forward to a peaceful night's sleep next to his wife's warm form, perhaps even some sweet lovemaking as they tried for that little girl they both wanted.

There was indeed sweet lovemaking; Henry kissing and touching his wife, bringing her to a climax that left her breathless and gasping before he too peaked, thrusting deeply into her body. He groaned as he ejaculated, his pleasure intensified by the thought that perhaps this was it, that in nine months they would welcome another baby. They both quickly fell asleep with dreams of pink cheeks and baby powder smells, and best big brother John holding his baby sister.

Henry's sleep was broken by the laughter of a demon, a Knight of Hell, who had possessed Josie's body. He managed to draw her away from his family, leaving them sleeping innocently as the Knight, Abbadon, chased Henry. He quickly sketched a spell, drawing blood from his hand in order to leap into the future, hoping to locate his son as an adult and a Man of Letters. Together, they could destroy Abbadon, protecting John's Legacy and allowing Henry to instruct John in the use of his as-yet-unrevealed magical gift.

But Abbadon was too strong for him. Henry crumpled helplessly before her, knowing he'd failed as she drained his blood and laughed in his face. In his final pained gasps, Henry prayed that John would never have to face something so powerful, so horrible, as Abbadon; that John would never have to hunt and be hunted by such a force of evil.

Then Henry's breath left his body and his heart stilled.


End file.
